of ornament, no splendour of poetic diction, to set off the meanest
things. The balance between the concealed irony and the assumed gravity,
is as nicely trimmed as the balance of power in Europe. The little is
made great, and the great little. You hardly know whether to laugh or
weep. It is the triumph of insignificance, the apotheosis of foppery and
folly. It is the perfection of the mock-heroic! I will give only the two
following passages in illustration of these remarks. Can any thing be
more elegant and graceful than the description of Belinda, in the
beginning of the second canto?

"Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain,
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames.
Fair nymphs, and well-drest youths around her shone,
But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike;
And like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,